Free MY HOT TEACHER: (Volume 5 of the "My Hot..." series; a stand-alone, New Adult novel) by Isabella Johns

touches my hand.  This time it’s my lover’s touch.  I’m never afraid of this contact.
    He grasps my hand and leads me to the small closet in the other bedroom.  He slides a box out from the back.  He shows me an album of old stamps, others of old coins, and stacks of baseball cards in rubber bands.  “My uncle was a collector.  I inherited this and the knives from him, though I never met him.”
    “Uh, huh,” I say, but it comes out like “that explains one thing but what about the bloody tee shirt?”
    He leads me back to the master closet, opens the door, sifts through the hamper overflowing with clothes, finds the tee shirt.  “Behind on my laundry.  Do you remember the night you sucked me in the bathroom while I shaved?”
    “Oh my God!”  I’m at first horrified, then hysterical with giddiness.
    “You scraped me with your teeth and I flinched and cut myself with the razor.”
    “I never noticed.  I was so into swallowing your great big, beautiful—”   
    “As it should be.” 
    He smiles then leads me to bed.
    “I’m so sorry for snooping!” I cry in between giggles of relief.
    “You’re going to get exactly what you deserve.”
    And I do.  Get it.  And deserve it.  After twenty-one years on this earth I deserve to be touched the way he touches me, to be fucked the way he fucks me, to enjoy making a man feel as good as he makes me feel.
    There’s nothing better than make up sex.  He’s tender and caring, completely silent, and we make love locked in one long eternal kiss as my pussy and his cock welcome each other like long lost friends.
    This doesn’t stop him from going right to the shower when we’re done, but I remain firm about no more snooping.  I lie here, immensely pleased that we made love again and would as often as I could before heading to Bethesda for Christmas break, my entire body aglow with delight that the Professor is still my lover and cares enough to work through my insecure nonsense.
    He drops me off about a block from the cafeteria, near a twenty-four hour convenience store.  There’s no one around so I chance giving him a kiss on the lips.  He smiles.  I tug my ski hat down low over my ears, wrap my wool scarf around my face, covering everything but the eyes.  I step out of his car into the thick snow, flakes big and wet, temperature probably just above freezing, tree limbs already heavy with white.  I wave goodbye then trudge back to the dorm. 
    Just past the cafeteria a branch cracks and falls sharply to the ground behind me, causing my head to turn around in a startled flinch.  I think a shadowy figure ducks behind a trash can.  I pick up my pace.  After another ten yards I turn around again and this time I’m sure someone’s following me.  I go faster; so does he.  I’m off and running in a deep panic, turning back once more, only to see that he’s sprinting after me!  He seems dressed in black, face covered in black, but it’s hard to tell, the snow’s so heavy.  This path to the dorm is very isolated.  I want to scream, but there’s no one around and my throat’s choked with fear.  As I run, I pull out my phone to dial 911.  To my utter horror the battery is dead.  I veer off through one side of the campus green, dart among trees, circle back toward the Caf, remembering the Public Safety kiosk there with a red button I can push to reveal the exact location of my emergency.
    The figure gains on me as I round the north corner of the large brick building and I’m forced to detour toward the back.  That’s when I see Professor Beard’s EMPTY car parked on the street where he dropped me off.  Confusion explodes in my brain.  I impulsively duck behind a large dumpster surrounded by high concrete walls, situated just off the driveway that leads to the Caf’s basement delivery door.  I hear nothing except the wheeze in my chest from my rapid frightened breaths.  I hope desperately that he didn’t see me come back here,